


Held in the Eye of Night

by Anonymous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Investigations, M/M, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-09 05:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In the course of his investigation, Jughead figures out a way to get into Thornhill to look around. (In theory, anyway. In practice... well, he's in a bit over his head.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=197452#cmt197452) at the Riverdale Kinkmeme.
> 
> This fic deals largely with underage sex work, and there are other dark implications. Proceed with caution.

He first hears concrete details from Isa Vasquez, but Jughead has heard the rumors before. He wrote it off as south side contempt for the Blossoms. The contempt is warranted by years of economic exploitation, granted, but that doesn’t mean Clifford Blossom actually has a taste for underage sex. After Jason is presumed dead, Jughead wonders a little more. And after Jason’s body is found, Jughead starts asking questions.

“This was about a decade ago,” Isa says. “I don’t know if he does it anymore.” Isa is in her mid-twenties. She used to serve cheap bourbon and gin at the White Wyrm but has since moved on to greener pastures. She tends bar at a long-established neighborhood bar on the north side now. She’s talking about going to college. She still lives in the Sunnyside trailer park, though, even if she has a lease on a sedan and wears real leather shoes. The inside of her trailer is sparsely furnished but everything is neat and clean. The chair Jughead’s sitting in has probably only had one previous owner, and it was someone who cared about their things.

“Do you know if it was just you?” Jughead says. Because there’s always that possibility: an infatuation with one teenager, cranked through the rumor mill into something else. Not that sex with even one teenager is a good thing, but what he’s heard is on another order of magnitude.

Isa shakes her head. “My cousin Laura did it, too, at least once. She’d deny it now.” Laura has outdone Isa in several ways: not just out of Sunnyside, but out of Riverdale. She’s an accountant over in Centerville. She has an honest-to-god _fiancé_ , unlike Isa, whose last boyfriend went to jail for assault and attempted murder. Jughead knows about Laura because Isa told him. He knows about Isa’s boyfriend because he heard his dad talking about it before he moved out. ( _Damn shame about Johnny_ , he said, _that kid could have been something._ Jughead’s not sure exactly what that meant, coming from his dad.) “And there were others.”

“How many times did you do it?” Jughead says.

“Twice,” Isa says. She’s not ashamed, exactly, but she’s not looking at him. She has angled her body on the couch so she doesn’t have to. “He paid a lot more, the first time, for the privilege of being _my_ first time.”

“Was it really?” Jughead says. That gets her to look at him. 

“Don’t push it,” she says sharply. Jughead holds his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was just curious.”

“Yeah,” she says, relenting. She leans back against the cushions. Her eyes drift away from him again. Looking back into the past. “Yeah, it was. I didn’t want to lie about it because I was afraid he’d ask me to do more stuff, you know, if I said I had experience. He paid less the second time, but still good money. Laura did it for the same reason I did, when she did it: trying to help make rent when things were tight. She was a couple of years younger, so when I couldn’t go anymore, she went.”

“You couldn’t go because you had a boyfriend?” Jughead guesses. Isa shakes her head.

“Johnny would’ve understood. But eighteen is Mr. Blossom’s cut-off. You hit eighteen and you’re yesterday’s news. He was kind of nice about it -- didn’t say anything nasty. Just ‘I’m sorry, Miss Vasquez, but you’ve aged out of the role.’ Made me wish I’d done it a few more times, back then, but now I’m glad it was only twice.” Her fingernails are digging into the upholstery. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did he hurt you?” Jughead says. 

“What is this, _SVU_?” Isa says. She’s trying to make it into a joke and can’t quite get there. “No, he didn’t hurt me. He was really particular about some things, and I had to stay the whole night, but he didn’t hurt me.”

“How much did you get for it?” Jughead says. “The first time.” Isa looks at him again, comprehension dawning.

“Oh, fuck, you’re thinking about doing this,” she says. Jughead shrugs, one-shouldered, and lets his gaze slide away like she did. 

“If it’s still something he’s doing. If the money’s good enough.”

“Your dad kick you out?” Isa says. Isa knows his dad -- knows he’ll drink well liquor straight instead of with a mixer, knows he’ll start fights and finish them. Knows his mom was a quiet little bird of a woman. Knows how to connect the dots because she’s seen the same story over and over and thinks his mom was lucky to get out alive with even one kid. (Isa’s connecting some of those dots wrong, but it makes her more likely to tell him what he wants to know. Jughead doesn’t care very much about defending his dad anymore. Not here, at least. It’s different on the north side.)

“Something like that,” Jughead says. 

“I could ask around, see who’s hiring for part-time jobs,” Isa offers. 

“I need something sooner,” Jughead says. 

“You could stay with me, even,” Isa says. “Until you get on your feet.” Jughead ducks his head, lets his hair hide some of his face. Let her think the worst, whatever that means for her.

“My dad might find out,” he says. “Which might be bad for you.” His dad would probably bang on the door in the middle of the night and demand to talk to him, once he found out, but he wouldn’t lay a hand on Isa. Wouldn’t hit Jughead, though he might manhandle him a little bit if he didn’t want to leave. “I just need some money, and I don’t want to be in debt to anyone.” He glances up and sees her nodding, sympathetic. “Do you know if he goes for boys at all?”

“They’ll deny it now, same as Laura, but I know a couple of guys who did it,” she says. “Back when we were all in high school. I heard about it from a kid named Ray.” She bites her lip and hesitates, but only for a moment. “I don’t know if Mr. Blossom was as nice to them.” There’s something strange in the way she says _Mr. Blossom_ , like the way she sees him in her mind hasn’t changed in the past decade. Like some part of her is stuck at fifteen or sixteen. 

“How’d you get in contact with him?” Jughead says. His heart is racing. His hands are starting to shake. He can work with that. Let Isa think he’s afraid. Really the adrenaline rush is simpler, and more complicated. He’s so close to getting into Thornhill, and once he’s there… he could crack this case wide open. Find something that leads to Jason’s killer. Dig deep into the dark heart of Riverdale. 

“There was a phone number,” Isa says. “But I’m sure he’s changed it by now, if that’s still how he does it.” She corrects herself: “If he still does it.” Jughead knows she thinks he does. She wouldn’t have given up this much information otherwise. 

“If there have been this many people, why hasn’t anyone talked about it?” Jughead says. “Why haven’t I heard about it from anyone else who went up to Thornhill?”

“Someone must have talked, or you wouldn’t have been asking around in the first place,” Isa says. 

“Yeah, but no one passed me a secret phone number,” Jughead says. Isa smiles. It feels at his expense rather than something meant to reassure him.

“You go to school on the north side,” Isa says. “Nobody over there wants to admit when they’ve been that hard up for money. South side kids are probably easier marks anyway.” Less likely to be missed, too, or at least less likely to merit a full police investigation instead of getting brushed off. North side kids are rarely written off as runaways. “I’ll ask around here, see if anyone has current contact information. I might not get anything. That was always something we kept to ourselves.” _We_ , like there’s a secret society of teenagers who Clifford Blossom has paid to have sex with him. _The Midnight Society_ , Jughead thinks stupidly. Isa leans over and puts a hand on his shoulder. He jumps a little, just because he’s not expecting it and because his adrenaline is running so high, but he’s not ashamed of startling so easily. It feeds into the narrative Isa is constructing. Maybe it’ll help. 

“If you hear anything, will you let me know?” Jughead says. He tucks the hair that had fallen in front of his face back under his hat. 

“I will,” Isa says. 

He gets a text two days later. A phone number, local area code, along with two words. _Hasn’t changed_. Jughead waits until nightfall, until the school has fallen almost-silent around him, noise reduced to the occasional creaks and groans of brick settling and pipes cooling. Then he calls. It’s anticlimactic. No answer, just a robotic voicemail message asking him to leave a name and number. Jughead declines to follow the instructions. Better to play the nervous virgin, he thinks. (He’s both of those things, but he’s not nervous _because_ he’s a virgin.) 

“Hi, um. I was told I could reach Clifford Blossom at this number, but if I’m wrong, you can just disregard this message.” He holds his breath: a beat, a pause, like he’s losing his nerve. “If this is the right number, you can call me back.” He leaves his cell number and waits. And waits. Eventually he does fall asleep. 

He’s jittery all through the next day. Betty notices; Archie doesn’t. When she asks, he says he didn’t sleep well, which is true. He checks his phone furtively every chance he gets. Nothing. He’s a little disappointed, but only a little. Going to Thornhill might have been a shortcut, but there are plenty of other avenues of investigation to pursue. (Safer ones, some part of him notes, and that part of him is relieved not to hear back.) He drifts through two days, going to class and writing drafts for the Blue & Gold that go way over the necessary wordcount. He thinks about going to see Isa, going to thank her but tell her that it didn’t work out in the end. She’d probably be relieved. He can give her that much, at least.

Almost exactly 48 hours after he made the call, his phone rings. Jughead is alternating between struggling through his geometry homework and reading _Death on the Installment Plan_. He doesn’t actually like the book, but he wants to like it. He feels like he should, as a writer, and keeps thinking that he’ll hit a certain point and it will click. He hasn’t gotten there yet when he gets the phone call. The phone rings twice before he gets his hands on it, two more times while he stares at the screen saying it’s an unknown caller. 

He answers it before it can ring a fifth time. “Hello?”

“You wanted to reach me.” A chill runs down his spine. Clifford Blossom, the man who owns more than half of Riverdale, is returning his call. “Who gave you this number?”

“My sources are confidential,” Jughead says. 

“Your sources,” Clifford repeats drily. “Who is this, exactly?” He doesn’t sound concerned. Maybe he knows he doesn’t have to worry about the police. Maybe Jughead’s voice just sounds too young to suggest any kind of leverage. 

“Jughead Jones,” he says, because there’s no point in lying. Clifford could find out, if he wanted to, and lying to him would make it less likely for Jughead to get invited to Thornhill. 

“Jones,” Clifford repeats, considering. “Why are you calling me on this number, Mr. Jones?” _This number_ , on a phone probably set aside for arranging trysts with high schoolers. 

“I heard you sometimes hire kids my age,” he says. “For… light manual labor.” 

“Not exactly light,” Clifford says. “And not exactly manual.” His tone is conversational. It doesn’t make the words any less ominous. “What do you think I would be hiring you to do? I don’t want any misunderstandings.” Jughead has a few wild, irrational thoughts in quick succession. That this isn’t a secure line, that it’s a trap to bust desperate teenagers for solicitation, that if he can answer the question at all then Clifford Blossom will decide he’s already too used-up. 

“Sex,” Jughead says finally. “Though I don’t know the details.”

“Think of it more as buying your time,” Clifford says. He doesn’t deny it. “For a few hours, you follow my instructions. You let me use you as I see fit. Some of it will be sexual, but not all of it.” 

“Okay,” Jughead says. His throat is dry. 

“I’ll want to meet you,” Clifford says. “To discuss specifics. When are you available?” 

“It would be better if it’s not a school night,” Jughead says. Clifford hums his approval. “Maybe Friday.” 

“Would you be able to stay until morning, if we agree on the terms?” Clifford says. If something happens, it’ll be two days before someone notices Jughead’s gone. If he finds something, he’ll have two days to get the evidence in order before presenting it to Betty in draft form. 

“Yeah,” Jughead says. “I could stay.”

Friday dawns gray and cold. The seasons turn quickly in Riverdale and fall is always closer to winter than summer. Jughead lays out his clothes for the night in the early morning, even though he won’t be wearing those clothes during the school day. He doesn’t want to show up looking like a Dickensian orphan. He went to the laundromat last week, so nothing is really in unacceptable shape yet, but there’s a difference between _not terrible_ and _nice_. He also wants to choose clothes he doesn’t have any sentimental attachment to, just in case it goes really badly. (So he can throw them out or donate them to Goodwill without too much regret.) The best he can come up with is a burgundy sweater that his mom gave him last year for his birthday. It still fits, looks respectable, and has no especially good memories to go with it. 

In the Blue & Gold office during lunch, he tells Betty that he’s going to call her over the weekend. Saturday night or Sunday morning at the latest. He might have news for her. She looks worried, asks if he needs any help with whatever he’s looking into. He imagines Betty at Thornhill, fresh-faced and earnest. He doesn’t want to think about the rest. It would be worse for her. Betty has further to fall. Jughead’s not making as much of a sacrifice; better that he take the risk. (And if it doesn’t work out -- if he makes it out okay and finds circumstantial evidence but nothing concrete -- Betty can always decide for herself whether she wants to take that chance.) 

After school, after sports practices, when all the hallway lights are off, Jughead gets ready. The storage closet feels smaller than it ever has before. He could still back out. He could just not go. Clifford Blossom wouldn’t track him down because that would mean acknowledging the phone call. Acknowledging what he’s been doing for at least a decade now. Jughead could stay in the little closet and read Céline in his nicest sweater, call Betty tomorrow and say that his lead didn’t pan out. 

He doesn’t, though. He takes off his hat and leaves it on the cot and walks through the north side of town until he reaches the edge of it. The road to Thornhill has no street lights and the sun is slipping down under the horizon, casting the woods in orange light and blue shadow. There’s a car waiting a little past the fork in the road. Just out of sight of the main county road. No one driving by would see it. The front driver’s side window rolls down as he approaches.

“Mr. Jones,” Clifford Blossom says. 

“Mr. Blossom,” Jughead replies. It feels like a Cold War spy movie, only more sordid. 

“Climb in,” Clifford says, patting the passenger seat. Jughead walks around the front of the car and opens the door. The seat is real leather. When they get up to the gate, Clifford has to stop the car and get out to open it. Jughead doesn’t help him. He sits and waits. Maybe the gate will get stuck and he’ll have to leave. (Maybe the gate will get stuck and Clifford will fuck him in the backseat like people sometimes used to do at the drive-in.) 

The gate swings open. Century-old cast iron, too heavy to be mechanized, but well-maintained. They drive through to the other side and Clifford has to get out again to close it. This time Jughead does get out of the car to help, but Clifford waves him back. No need. They don’t drive up to the front door. There’s another driveway, gravel instead of pavement, that goes around to the back. The car follows it across a cobblestone courtyard and into an old wooden building. 

“This used to be the stables,” Clifford says. “It was converted into a garage in the 1930s.”

“Oh,” Jughead says. Then, just a little too late, “It’s nice.”

“It’s a waste of space,” Clifford says. “We don’t own enough cars to fill it.” There are five cars in the garage, which seems like more than enough. Jughead doesn’t say so. He doesn’t say anything, just follows Clifford back across the courtyard to the back of the house. To what used to be the servants’ entrance, probably, which seems both ironic and appropriate. The house is quiet. It strikes him that Cheryl’s car was in the garage. She couldn’t be home, though -- Clifford wouldn’t have sex with one of his daughter’s classmates while she was in the house. Right? 

The hallways don’t all look the same, but it’s easy to get disoriented. Maybe they’re built at slightly wrong angles, like in Hill House. (Jughead read _The Haunting of Hill House_ over the summer. He likes Shirley Jackson without feeling obligated or having to work at it, unlike with Céline.) They arrive at a bedroom and he re-frames the place in his head. Not Jackson: Brontë. The red room in _Jane Eyre_. There’s a canopy on the bed, dark upholstery. A fireplace, even. There’s no fire burning in the grate, but there’s a neat stack of firewood on the hearth. 

“First thing’s first,” Clifford says briskly. “I’ll need your phone.”

“What?” Jughead says. 

“I don’t want to take the chance that you’ll try to accumulate any blackmail material,” Clifford says. “Nothing against you personally. I’ve just made it a policy.” His hand comes up to rest at the small of Jughead’s back, guiding him into the room. Jughead glances back: there’s a brass key in the lock on the door. Old-fashioned, like everything else. “Any attempts at blackmail, for that matter, will have serious consequences for you.” 

“Like what?” Jughead says. Clifford frowns. 

“Nothing you want to experience firsthand.” He holds out his hand for Jughead’s phone and Jughead obliges him. He watches Clifford move away from him and put the phone on top of the bureau. It’s still in sight, at least, which is reassuring. “Now, to business.” He sits down in a chair next to the empty fireplace and gestures at another chair across from him. This chair, Jughead is sure, has had more than one previous owner. More than a century’s worth of previous owners, all obsessed with legacy, knowing even the furniture will stay in the family.

“I’m a virgin,” Jughead says. “I was told that was important.”

“That could mean a lot of things, in this day and age,” Clifford says. “Do you mean you’ve never been with a man before, or have you never been with anyone? Have you been with someone but didn’t think it counted because it wasn’t penetrative? There are all kinds of loopholes now.” His eyes rake over Jughead, appraising and hungry. “In my day, it meant you were… untouched. Completely.”

“I’ve never done anything with anyone,” Jughead says. “Not even kissing, really.” 

“I’m surprised to hear that,” Clifford says, leaning back in his chair. “Good-looking boy like you.”

“Yeah, well,” Jughead says. He can feel a flush creeping onto his cheeks, up the back of his neck. “It must be my winning personality that intimidates them.” Clifford stands and crosses the space between their chairs until he’s very close. Jughead has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. He takes Jughead’s chin in one hand, forcing him to keep still. 

“I’ve had problems before,” Clifford says. “With _attitude_.” The grip on his chin tightens. Not enough to be painful, but enough to make a point. “Can you be sweet, Mr. Jones?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead says. “I’ve never really tried.”

“Can you be docile, at least?” Clifford says. “Can you take direction?” He slides his thumb up to rest over Jughead’s lips. He takes the hint and lets his lips part under the slight pressure. “Good,” Clifford says softly, approvingly. “That’s very good.” This feels dangerous already, and Jughead still has all his clothes on. “What would you say to eight hundred and fifty dollars for the night?” 

“Okay,” Jughead says. His heart is pounding.

“I’ll drop you off the same place I picked you up,” Clifford says. “At seven in the morning.”

“Okay,” Jughead repeats. 

“Until that time, you follow my instructions,” Clifford says. Jughead swallows hard and nods. “I think we’re going to get along fine, Mr. Jones. Shall we get started?”

“Sure,” Jughead says. Clifford takes his hand away from Jughead’s face and steps back. He goes over to a tall wooden wardrobe. Jughead has never seen one of those in real life. He listens to the rustle of fabric, the soft click of hangers against hangers, and he waits. Clifford eventually comes to a decision and holds up a robe. Or, no -- dressing gown seems like the right term. It’s old-fashioned, dark red with a quilted black velvet collar, like a smoking jacket but longer. Nothing frilly or flimsy or feminine, just something refined. It smells like cedar when Clifford hands it to him. 

“There’s a bathroom through there,” he says, gesturing at a closed door. “I want you to take a bath. Clean yourself as thoroughly as possible.” Jughead feels his face heating up again, mortified. “When you’re done, I want you to put this on -- and _only_ this -- and come back out.” 

Inside the bathroom, Jughead steels himself. This is his first moment alone in Thornhill and his first real chance to investigate. He starts with the medicine cabinet. He already knows he probably won’t find anything useful. This isn’t the master bedroom. It’s a guest bedroom, and probably one that only hosts a specific set of guests. What he does find, while not incriminating, stops him dead in his tracks. There’s a staggering array of medical supplies under the sink. _I don’t know if Mr. Blossom was as nice to them_ , Isa had said about the boys who spent the night with him. This does not look like someone preparing for garden variety injuries, or even garden variety sex injuries. This looks like someone preparing to treat serious (if non-lethal) damage.

Jughead hears the sound of voices in the bedroom, so he closes the cabinet and walks back over to the door. He presses his ear to the wood, straining to make out the words. 

“-- a guest tonight, Penelope. It’s been months.”

“Since before Jason died.” 

“Yes. It’s been long enough that the house isn’t under constant surveillance. I think I can afford the indulgence, don’t you?”

“I don’t mind in principle. I just wish you’d given me more advance notice. What am I supposed to tell Cheryl?”

“Anything you want. Tell her I have a headache, or I’m looking over some paperwork from the board and don’t want to be disturbed.”

“And I take it I’m supposed to do that paperwork in the meantime?”

“Save it for Sunday. We can make an afternoon of it. Was that all?”

There’s a long pause. Then: “I suppose so. Good night, Clifford.”

“Good night, Penelope.” 

Jughead waits and hears nothing for a few moments, and then there’s a knock directly on the other side of the door. He starts back, spooked. 

“Alright in there?” Clifford says. “I don’t hear the water running.”

“Sorry,” Jughead says. “I guess I’m just nervous.” 

“Don’t take too long,” Clifford says. “Or I’ll have to keep you all weekend to make up for lost time.” His tone is friendly, and he says it like he’s joking, but Jughead isn’t sure. There are sleeping pills under the sink, along with the rubbing alcohol and gauze and surgical tape. Clifford could make it very hard for him to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content in this part. (And, uh, not much else. Next time we'll get some attempted investigation, I promise!)

Jughead spends longer in the bath than he usually would in the shower. It’s been a long time since he even could take a bath -- the trailer just has a shower cubicle, and when he was living at the drive-in, he went to the YMCA to shower. And it’s not like the school has a bathtub. So he takes a long time in part because it’s a rare luxury, and in part because he’s afraid he won’t be clean enough otherwise. He showers every day, but Isa made a point of saying that Clifford Blossom is _particular_ , and then Clifford himself told Jughead to clean himself _thoroughly_. So he scrubs, rinses, scrubs again, and does his best with that he thinks the other implication of Clifford’s instructions was. It doesn’t feel like a scouting mission or a covert operation anymore. Now he’s more worried about getting through the night unscathed, as much as is possible. 

He dries off with a towel from the rack, puts on the dressing gown, and folds his clothes neatly. He leaves them on the edge of the marble vanity next to the sink. Going back out into the bedroom is harrowing. He feels like all his defenses are gone. He’s covered from his neck down to his ankles, but it’s different now. (His hair is damp. His feet are bare.) Clifford is seated by the fireplace again. He has a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Brandy, maybe, or whiskey. There’s a small fire burning, half the wood from the hearth on the grate or leaning against the inside of the fireplace, drying out. 

“Where are your clothes?” Clifford says. Backlit by the fire, it’s hard for Jughead to see his face. 

“In the bathroom,” Jughead says. His throat is dry again. He almost can’t get the words out. 

“Put them over there,” Clifford says, gesturing to the bureau where his phone rests. “You can put your shoes by the door.” Jughead does so. He can be docile, he just usually doesn’t want to. There’s usually no advantage in surrender. Clifford stands as Jughead crosses the room, watching him. He comes to stand behind Jughead at the bureau. He’s close enough that Jughead can feel the heat of his body and smell the drink in his hand. Whiskey, definitely; bourbon, probably. The kind that has notes of smoke and vanilla. (Clifford Blossom has probably never had to resort to drinking well liquor in his life.)

“Open the top drawer and put the clothes and phone inside.” Jughead follows those instructions, too. It feels like a test. He needs to pass it if he’s going to get anywhere tonight. Clifford reaches around him and shuts the drawer with slightly more force than strictly necessary. Jughead swallows thickly but doesn’t flinch. He just watches as Clifford turns the little key in the drawer and withdraws it. There are locks on everything in this goddamn house, like it was built for privacy. Or for keeping prisoners.

“Another precaution,” Clifford says. “Don’t turn around.” So he won’t know where the key is, Jughead thinks. He stays still, listening to the crackle of burning wood, until a hand comes to rest on the back of his neck. Then he does flinch. The hand withdraws. “Good. That was good, Mr. Jones. Now I want you to turn around and look at me.” He does. He watches the line of Clifford’s throat as he drains the last of the whiskey in his glass. Clifford’s gaze is hungry, but it’s a patient kind of hunger. 

“Take off the robe.” Jughead hesitates, hands at the belt of the dressing gown. 

“Where should I put it?” he says. He’s immediately ashamed of how small his voice sounds. 

“You can drape it over that chair.” Clifford indicates one of the chairs by the fire, and Jughead moves toward it, putting the chair between them like a shield. “No, don’t _hide behind_ the chair,” Clifford says sharply. “As a matter of fact, I’d like you to stand in front of it.” He sits in the chair opposite and watches keenly as Jughead fumbles with the knot in the belt. He gets it undone, and the robe falls open. Jughead’s first impulse is to cover himself, but that would be counterproductive. He lets the dressing gown slide off his shoulders, down his arms, and then tosses it backward blindly in the direction of the chair. Exposed, he looks obstinately away from Clifford. Clifford doesn’t reprimand him. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Jughead says. He looks at the painting over the mantel instead: a pastoral scene. A hunt. Hounds tearing into a fox. 

“You may,” Clifford says, magnanimous. He can afford to be. He’s getting exactly what he wants.

“What about this is good for you?” Jughead says. 

“There’s a certain window of time where I think aesthetic appeal is at its peak,” Clifford says. “A certain state of ignorance that I find intriguing.” Jughead looks back at him and is transfixed by the intensity of his stare. “You will never in your life be more beautiful than you are now, in this moment, before I touch you.” 

“And after?” Jughead says. His voice cracks. 

“You’ll be beautiful, but you’ll be different,” Clifford says. “I’ll make you different. I’ll take something away, something you can never get back, and give you something else to replace it. Something you can never give away.” He stands, and Jughead takes a step back without meaning to. It’s instinct. Clifford reaches out, one hand resting on the side of Jughead’s neck. His thumb curls around to stroke his throat. A caress and a threat. It wouldn’t take much pressure to cut off his air supply. He wouldn’t even need both hands. “Does that make sense to you?”

“Kind of,” Jughead says. “I guess.” He thinks about Isa, about the way she didn’t look at him even as she answered his questions frankly. About the way she said _Mr. Blossom_. “This is a defining experience, and it’s going to stay with me.” Whether he wants it to or not.

“That’s exactly it,” Clifford says. He’s easing off the intensity a little, but not going all the way back to the impersonal politeness he used earlier. He doesn’t need that façade; there isn’t going to be any more negotiating. There’s no use for the illusion that Jughead has any real bargaining power. His other hand comes up to trace the curve of Jughead’s waist, to pull him closer. It’s uncomfortable for several reasons. The obvious, situational ones, and also the fact that Clifford is still fully dressed, and moreover wearing a tweed blazer, which doesn’t have the most welcoming texture. Maybe that’s a power play, too. Jughead doesn’t know where to put his own hands -- doesn’t know if he’s supposed to touch Clifford in return or just let himself be touched. Tentatively, he rests one hand on Clifford’s chest. Clifford draws back, inhaling sharply, and Jughead thinks he’s miscalculated. “Go stand by the bed.”

“Already?” Jughead says. Clifford’s eyebrows go up, and he has to backpedal a little. “I just mean that we have all night.”

“We do,” Clifford agrees. “But there are a lot of things I want to do to you.” _To_ you, not _with_ you. Jughead doesn’t miss that. “One night hardly seems enough.” 

“Okay,” Jughead says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…” he trails off. “I’ll, um. Do what you said.” He moves to stand by the bed, and Clifford moves with him, never entirely breaking contact. A hand on the small of his back, sliding around to his hip. 

“You’re doing well,” Clifford says. “Really.” He doesn’t touch Jughead like he wants to hurt him, but he doesn’t handle him with care, either. He turns Jughead so that he’s facing the bed, pressing in close behind him. One hand grips the back of Jughead’s neck: not with violence, but leaving no room for argument. It’s less about force than the promise of force. The certainty of mastery over the subject or object of his desire. Jughead finds himself being pressed to the mattress. He tenses up. He can’t help it. 

“Are you going to use a condom?” Jughead says. “If you do this often, I mean, it might be a good idea.”

“I get tested regularly,” Clifford says. “For my wife’s sake. But you’re getting ahead of yourself.” The hand on the back of his neck kneads at the muscle there. To calm him, or to make a point. “You’re being presumptuous, Mr. Jones.” Naked and pinned, bent over the edge of the bed, being called ‘Mr. Jones’ feels more like mockery than politeness. It kind of makes Clifford sound like a Bond villain, actually. “Keep your legs tight together, now.” 

_This is what has to happen_ , Jughead thinks, trying to fight through the rising panic with logic. He has to let this go as far as Clifford wants it to go, otherwise he’ll never get to chance to look any further than this one bedroom. He’ll be thrown out of Thornhill, or --

Or something worse will happen to him. 

So Jughead stays still and waits. Clifford’s hand leaves his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement at the nightstand. A drawer opens and closes. There’s a soft sound like the rasp of metal on glass. He freezes, feels the fear start to bubble up again, but then thinks through it. Nightstand, sex. Clifford Blossom is probably just opening a jar of the world’s fanciest lube, because no one who owns a multi-million dollar company needs to use the kind from the drugstore that comes in a tube. He closes his eyes when he feels something slick nudge at the backs of his thighs. (Clifford can’t see his eyes. He won’t even notice.)

“I assume your father doesn’t know you’re here,” Clifford says. His hand comes to rest on the back of Jughead’s neck again, then slides down to between his shoulderblades. 

“What?” Jughead says, muffled slightly by the fact that he’s talking into the bedspread. Clifford’s cock is sliding between his legs now. He’s glad to have something else to focus on. 

“He wouldn’t have let you come,” Clifford says. He sounds like he’s talking through gritted teeth. “He wouldn’t want you anywhere near me.”

“You know my dad?” Jughead says. This is information he wants -- the kind of information he came for. Even though he really doesn’t want to be thinking about his dad right now. 

“Oh, only slightly,” Clifford says, faintly amused. “I already like you much better.” With that, the subject seems closed, at least for now. So Jughead considers what it might mean, how Clifford could possibly know his dad. Whether this is a reference to something that happened a long time ago (maybe on a construction job, back when his dad and Archie’s dad were still working together) or something more recent. Because if Clifford has business with the Serpents… that could mean a lot of things. It could lead a lot of places, none of them good.

Jughead finds himself tensing with each forward thrust, sure that _this time_ Clifford will try to press inside, but it doesn’t happen. The hand between his shoulderblades bears down with more pressure and Jughead has to turn his head to one side to keep from getting smothered. Eventually Clifford pulls back a little and comes across his lower back. It’s pretty gross (warm and viscous), but not painful, or really anything that he expected. 

“I understand that you’re nervous,” Clifford says, “but you do need to learn to relax.”

Jughead pushes himself up on his elbows. “I thought you were going to --” he says and then stops. 

“What did you think I was going to do?” Clifford says. Jughead turns his head to look back at him. Clifford is already re-buckling his belt. He’s still dressed in a turtleneck and slacks, though the blazer is draped over an ottoman next to the nightstand. So that’s two separate places to look for the key to the drawer: the blazer and his pants pockets. Jughead won’t be able to pat him down once while pretending to feel him up and be done with it. 

“I thought you were going to fuck me,” Jughead says, and is immediately embarrassed by his own choice of words. It’s accurate, but it seems too vulgar. 

“Charming,” Clifford says drily. “I _did_ fuck you, as a matter of fact.”

“No, I meant --” Jughead starts and then stops again. Clifford waits, makes him struggle to articulate what he means without making a fool of himself. “I thought you’d want to be inside me.” 

“Without preparing you at all?” Clifford says. He sounds amused. “I’m a deviant, Mr. Jones, not a monster.”

“So you think you are, then?” Jughead says, tone a little more challenging than he really expects to get away with. “A deviant.”

“I know that’s how other people would see it,” Clifford concedes. “Personally, I consider myself a connoisseur.” He runs his hand down Jughead’s side, proprietary, and then drags his fingertips through the mess on his back. 

“Can I clean this off?” Jughead says. 

Clifford waits the space of a breath before answering. “Not yet,” he says. “Stay where you are.” Clifford keeps telling him not to move and then doing things out of his line of sight, and it’s one of the more unnerving things about the whole set-up, which is saying something. He hears the door to the bathroom close. A little later, the sound of running water. He’s _washing his hands_ , Jughead realizes, even though he wouldn’t let Jughead wipe the come off his back. (It’s starting to dry now. So is the lube between his thighs. It’s not a pleasant feeling, sticky and sordid.) 

“You’re going to have to work a little harder now,” Clifford says when he reemerges. Jughead looks back at him again. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to his elbows, and the hair on his arms is grayer than the hair on his head, which doesn’t seem right. 

“I assume that means I can get up,” Jughead says. 

“It means you _have_ to get up, in fact,” Clifford agrees good-naturedly. He waits until Jughead is standing to continue. “I understand that you didn’t get much out of that.” Jughead shrugs, one-shouldered, noncommittal. “I don’t blame you -- I sympathize. And I want you to get something out of tonight, besides what I’m paying you, so you’re going to show me what you like.” 

“But I haven’t done anything with anyone else,” Jughead says. “I told you that. I don’t have much of a frame of reference.”

“I believe you,” Clifford says. He takes a step closer. The only reason Jughead doesn’t step back this time is because his legs are almost right up against the bed. “But I’d be surprised if a young man of your age didn’t get off on his own, now and again.” 

“So you want me to masturbate,” Jughead says flatly. 

“I want you to show me what’s good for you,” Clifford says. “Not to get off as quickly as possible. Touch yourself the way you would if you didn’t have to worry about time limits or keeping quiet, as is often the case.” The explanation is succinct, practiced, born of experience. Jughead knows now that there must have been some kid who just wanted to get it over with and jerked himself off as fast as he could; some other kid who clamped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t make a sound, like she had to do at home because the walls were thin or because she shared her room with someone. Being reminded of the scope of it all is a little sickening. 

Jughead has to try not to think about it. 

“Can I lay down on the bed, or should I make an effort not to get semen on the upholstery?” he says. The friendliness seems to slide off of Clifford’s face. This, and not a frank question about how Clifford views himself and his proclivities, is where Jughead has crossed a line.

“You may remember that I said I didn’t want to deal with attitude,” he says. Jughead’s heartrate picks up fast. 

“Sorry, Mr. Blossom,” Jughead says. “It’s a defense mechanism.” 

“I understand that,” Clifford says. “But consider this a reminder to think before you speak to me.” He raises a hand and Jughead closes his eyes, bracing himself for a blow. None comes. Clifford cups his cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Another threat hidden in a caress. “This will all be easier and more pleasant that way. Would you like to try again?” Jughead nods. “Go ahead.”

“Can I lay down on the bed?” Jughead says. “Or do you want me somewhere else?”

“Better, Mr. Jones,” Clifford says. “Much better.” Jughead startles at the gentle press of lips against his and opens his eyes just as Clifford pulls away. “You can go wherever you’re comfortable right now.” 

Jughead takes the bed. He stares up at the canopy and wonders how the hell he’s supposed to get hard. He tries to think of something even remotely appealing, but he’s too aware of where he is and what he’s doing. He feels stifled by the warm weight of Clifford’s eyes on him. He doesn’t want to think about anyone he knows, anyone he _likes_ , because then he’ll think of _this_ when he thinks of them. Clifford Blossom may ruin his night, but Jughead isn’t going to let him ruin any friendships or even any stupid crushes. He palms his cock, bites his lip, and thinks of nothing at all. He’s starting to get there when Clifford starts talking and it gets difficult again. 

“There’s lubricant to your right,” he says. Then: “Do you ever finger yourself?”

“I’ve never tried,” Jughead says. 

“I’m going to have to take my time with you,” Clifford says, half to himself. Jughead reaches around blindly to find the lube (which is, in fact, in a jar). He doesn’t want to look over because that would mean looking at Clifford, too. Then he closes his eyes and goes back to trying, miserably, to pretend he’s alone. 

Pretending he’s back at the drive-in, with everything shut down for the night. (On an inexplicably better mattress than he had there.) The crackle of the fire could be the whir of the motor in the little super-8 projector he had to leave behind. He never stripped down all the way when he was staying at the drive-in because, no matter how much the loved it, the place was kind of a deathtrap. He pushes that thought aside. Not important. What’s important is that he’s alone. It’s been a long day (here the fantasy falters again, as he does remember what a long day he’s actually had) because the drive-in is always busy in the summer. But it’s a good kind of tired -- the kind that comes from working hard. Not the kind that comes from being worn down. He’s unwinding before bed. After this, he’ll get to sleep, and wake up tomorrow, and do the same thing.

The further he goes with it, the more holes there are in the fantasy. He was starting work on his novel when he lived at the drive-in, and he has to cut off that train of thought because it leads to Jason Blossom which leads back to Thornhill. Thinking about working at the drive-in also reminds him of the fact that it’s closed, the fact that the only place that was ever really _his_ is a pile of rubble in an empty lot. He distracts himself well enough to get the job done, though, which is what matters. 

Jughead comes over his hand with a stifled gasp and opens his eyes to find Clifford regarding him with interest. His first impulse is to curl in on himself, but he pushes it down. 

“Was that okay?” he says. He hardly recognizes his own voice. Soft, sounding desperate for approval. Weak. (He’s off-balance, that’s all.)

“It was illuminating,” Clifford says. He sounds like he means it, though Jughead’s not sure what it could have illuminated. The fact that nothing special turns him on, maybe. Clifford’s into the whole blank slate thing. Maybe it will work in his favor.

“Can I rest for a minute?” Jughead says. He doesn’t ask if he can clean himself up this time.

“You may,” Clifford says. Jughead turns on his side, facing away. Maybe he’ll really only get one minute, timed down to the second. He needs to consider his options in whatever time he has. What he needs is the opportunity to look for the key to the drawer with his clothes and phone. Nothing else he wants to find will be in this room. To actually leave the room and reach the rest of the house, he’ll need Clifford to be somewhere else or otherwise occupied in order to use that key. That will be difficult if the plan is to spend the entire night having sex. (The mattress dips. A hand cards through his hair and he manages not to shrink back.) 

Jughead thinks that kind of schedule is unlikely, though. Clifford has to sleep sometime. Close to eleven hours would be ridiculously ambitious even for someone much younger. So Jughead just has to get through however much more Clifford has planned before going to sleep. He can do that. If he can get away clean and doesn’t take anything obviously valuable with him, he’s pretty sure the Blossoms won’t try to pin anything on him. That would require explaining how Jughead got onto the premises in the first place. They won’t want to resort to that if they can possibly avoid it. 

“How are you feeling?” Clifford says. 

“Fine,” Jughead says, sitting up. “Great.” 

“Really,” Clifford says. Friendly again, but incredulous. 

“A little hungry,” Jughead says, which isn’t a lie. “I didn’t have a chance to eat before I came over.”

“I could get you something,” Clifford says. Which presents other possibilities: if Jughead’s allowed to go with him to the kitchen, he could get a better idea of the house’s layout for when he’s looking around later. If he has to stay in the bedroom, which seems more likely, he’d have a chance to look for the key to the drawer and eliminate some possibilities, if nothing else. But the thought of what he found in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom gives him pause. Accepting food from Clifford would just be giving him an opportunity to dose him with something. Jughead could end up knocked out, dead to the world for a few hours, unable to investigate or even put up a fight if Clifford decided he wanted to put the rest of those medical supplies to good use. 

“No,” Jughead says, trying to sound nonchalant. “That’s okay.” He changes the subject, not wanting to give Clifford the chance to ask questions or press the issue. “What do you want me to do next?” 

Clifford smiles, slow and satisfied. It sends a chill up Jughead’s spine. “Now, Mr. Jones, you learn to use your mouth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's called _ephebophilia_ , Jughead. Can you spell it?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Investigation! Copious, awful sexual content! Sadness! This chapter actually has all that I promised you.

What Clifford means is kissing. To start with, at least -- Jughead knows it won’t stay that simple. Clifford made a point of bringing the jar of lube over when he went back to one of the chairs by the fireplace. He settles Jughead on his lap, straddling his legs. The chair is slightly too narrow to make the position comfortable. Jughead’s knees are wedged against the armrests. For now, though, it’s not as bad as it could be, and there’s no use complaining about it.

It’s strange what makes him feel most vulnerable. Coming out of the bathroom in the dressing gown, still mostly covered; sitting on Clifford’s lap, with his come already painted across his back. This shouldn’t be intimidating. It is, though. Maybe because he’s more exposed. Bent over on the bed, pinned down, he didn’t have to look at himself or Clifford. Now he does. (He doesn’t like what he sees. Skinny legs spread over dark wool trousers. Hungry eyes.) Now he has to _do_ something to someone instead of allowing something to be done to him. That makes a difference, even if he doesn’t have much choice about what he’s doing. 

Jughead has kissed people before. Little pecks on the cheek for family and friends, when he was little, though he did it less often as he got older. He can pinpoint exactly when the last time he kissed someone was. 

June, outside the trailer, early in the morning. He kissed Jellybean on the cheek and told her he’d see her soon. She scrunched up her face, embarrassed, and said he should just come with them now. His mom looked over at him, pale and worried. They’d talked it over together, decided that he should stay in Riverdale for the summer until she and Jellybean got settled somewhere. He had things here that he wasn’t keen on leaving and she knew that. She didn’t know he still had hopes of getting his dad to turn his life around, trying to fix something that had probably been broken a long time. That morning, in the gray dawn light, he could have asked to come with them and his mom would have thrown their careful consideration to the wind and bundled him into the car along with his sister. He didn’t ask, though. He didn’t kiss her on the cheek, either. He hugged her and promised to call every week. Neither of them held up their end of the bargain, so it all worked out, in a crooked way. Jughead stopped calling and his mom never came to get him at the end of the summer. 

Kissing on the mouth is different than kissing on the cheek. It would be different even if he was doing it with someone he liked. It’s not a momentary thing -- more like a series of kisses bleeding into one another than a single action with a beginning and an end. And there are other sensations beyond the press of lips to skin, lips to lips. He can taste the whiskey on Clifford’s mouth. (Sweet and sharp. Maple syrup and kerosene.) Jughead hates it the way he hates the hands gripping his hips. Viscerally, poisonously. Helplessly. 

“You’re good at this, for someone with limited experience,” Clifford says, pulling back. 

“What, do you think I was lying?” Jughead says. One of the hands on his hips drifts up his side. Fingers dig in when he shies away. 

“Not at all,” Clifford says lightly. “I meant it as a compliment.” 

“I watch a lot of movies,” Jughead says. “I know how it’s supposed to go.” Clifford laughs a little, a chuckle deep in his chest. They’re close enough that Jughead can feel it more than hear it. 

“For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me.” 

Jughead feels wrong-footed, like he’s made a mistake in offering information about himself without being asked. Not because Clifford is angry with him, but because he _isn’t_. Because he’s acting like this is a normal conversation. Because he’s acting like Jughead is a person instead of only a body. That makes it worse. It’s one thing to use someone if they’re not real to you -- it’s bad, but there’s at least a disconnect there to explain it. To use someone when you’re fully aware of the fact that they have a life and feelings and interests is a different kind of cruelty. 

The introduction of tongues into kissing actually makes it less enjoyable, which goes against conventional wisdom. It doesn’t feel more intimate. It’s just wetter. The hand still on his hip slides down, and back, and Jughead freezes. Clifford pulls away from the kiss to look at him with chagrin.

“And here I thought you were starting to calm down,” he says. 

“I wasn’t expecting it,” Jughead says. 

“Consider this your warning, then,” Clifford says. He takes his hand away, though, and Jughead relaxes a little until he sees Clifford reach for the jar of lube. “This is going to take time.” 

Jughead kisses him again, out of some vain and desperate hope that if he’s good enough at _that_ then he won’t have to do anything else. He breaks it off with a gasp when the first finger pushes inside. His hips hitch forward, trying to get away, but instead he only finds himself extremely aware of the fact that Clifford is nearly ready for another round of more active involvement. He presses his face to Clifford’s shoulder, turning his head away. 

“Let me know if I hurt you,” Clifford says. His breath stirs the short hairs at the nape of Jughead’s neck and he shivers.

“Would you stop if I did?” Jughead says. A little challenging, a little bitter. Mostly scared. 

“Of course,” Clifford says. His free hand strokes Jughead’s back -- another incongruously gentle gesture. It almost seems tender. “I’d take things slower, at least.”

_I can’t do this,_ Jughead thinks wildly. Then, with a little more clarity, _I can’t_ not _do this._ He’s come too far to back out now, if that’s even an option. Which it probably isn’t. He bites down hard on his lip to keep from making any sound as Clifford’s finger delves deeper, sliding against places he didn’t even know he had nerve endings. 

“Not so bad, is it,” Clifford says, trying to soothe Jughead as he shakes. His finger withdraws. Jughead knows better than to think it’s over. He tenses up again when he feels two fingers trying to ease in. Trying to pry him open. 

“Wait,” Jughead says. “Please.” He has a few long moments to master himself, take a few shuddering breaths. The hand stroking his back eases off only to wedge in the scant space between their bodies. Slick, now, and loosely wrapping around his cock. Jughead gasps, pitching further forward against Clifford. The two fingers press back in a little more easily than before. It’s still too much. All the points of contact between them are overwhelming now that he has to deal with internal and external sensations. The hand on his cock, the cashmere against his cheek (and the solidity of the shoulder beneath that), the whisper of breath across his neck, the wool under his thighs (and the hardness beneath that). Even without the addition of the fingers stretching him too wide, it would be _too much_. 

“You’re very sensitive, aren’t you?” Clifford says. He sounds pleased. He works his fingers deeper and Jughead makes a sound loud enough that biting his lip can’t hold it in. “That might be enough for now.” He disentangles himself from Jughead, getting enough space between them to fish a handkerchief out of one of his pockets. He wipes off both of his hands. There’s a smear of lube on his shirt and another on his pants. Aside from that, he still looks reasonably put-together. 

“What now?” Jughead says. He’s half-hard, damp-eyed, probably flushed. He doesn’t sound wrecked, though. He sounds unconcerned. He counts it as a small victory.

“As you pointed out, we have all night,” Clifford says. He doesn’t sound unaffected enough for Jughead to really believe him. Keeping his clothes on is probably a power thing, and he can control that (as he can most aspects of the situation), but he doesn’t have perfect control over his physiological reactions. He’s hard again. Patience has its limits. So Jughead waits for that to run out. 

“Okay,” Jughead says. It’s the smallest, pettiest kind of control he can exercise. It’s also the only kind available to him right now. 

“I need to put another log on the fire,” Clifford says after a short stalemate. Jughead has to brace one hand against the back of the chair as he gets up. His knees are stiff. They make a little popping sound when he straightens his legs and he winces. He stays standing when Clifford sits back down. 

“Where do you want me?” he says. There’s no question of waiting any longer. 

“In front of me,” Clifford says, spreading his legs a little. “On your knees.” Jughead manages to keep from wincing again as he kneels. The rug isn’t as bad as it could be, at least -- plush and thick. Probably handmade by some children in a horrible factory over a hundred years ago. Jughead runs his hands up Clifford’s thighs. He hopes it looks seductive. What he’s trying to do is feel whether the key is in either of his pants pockets. No luck. That leaves the blazer over by the bed as his best option. He can worry about that later. 

Right now, he’s faced with the monumental task of unbuckling a leather belt, of unbuttoning and unzipping the fly of a pair of hideously expensive pants. If he moves quickly enough, he won’t have time to second-guess it. He’s thinking too hard about everything. But he can’t shut his mind off. He wouldn’t even if he knew how. The whole point of being here is to find things out. In the long run, that’s worth more than eight hundred and fifty dollars. (Though he’ll take the money, too. Of course he will. Anything else would arouse suspicion.)

Jughead’s getting ahead of himself again. To use that money, to use that knowledge -- to get that knowledge in the first place -- he has to get through the here and now. 

“Are you alright?” Clifford says. 

“Sorry,” Jughead says. “Sorry, yeah, I’m fine. Just…” Clifford strokes his hair but doesn’t try to pull him in closer. “I know how this is supposed to work.” Clifford takes pity on him, or maybe starts to lose patience. He unbuckles his own belt, undoes his own fly, gets his cock out. 

“You know how to kiss,” Clifford says. “Start there.” Jughead takes the suggestion. He kisses the head of Clifford’s cock. Wetly, with tongue, the way he was supposed to like kissing but didn’t. Under his hands, Clifford’s thighs start to tense. “That’s good, Mr. Jones,” he murmurs. “That’s very good.” The hand in Jughead’s hair moves to the back of his head. 

Jughead meant what he said. He knows how this is supposed to go. He knows more about this, even, than he does about kissing. Not from personal experience, not from movies. But before the drive-in became his place of residence, back when he only worked the busy weekend showings, he’d have to walk home through that little patch of woods at night. It wasn’t as dangerous as a lot of people thought as long as you knew how to mind your own business. That was the rule: keep walking, don’t stare at anyone lighting up or going down. But he saw enough. Heard enough. The noises were worse than what he saw, which wasn’t ever much, in the dark. Wet sounds, little gasps. Something like coughing or choking. It never sounded pleasant. 

It doesn’t feel pleasant when he starts to take more of Clifford’s cock into his mouth, but it’s also not terrible. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t make him feel weak. It’s easier, in a way, than it was to sit in Clifford’s lap and get taken apart. The hand on the back of his head doesn’t pull him forward. It rests there, like a formality. Until Clifford’s cock hits the back of his throat, at which point he starts to make those awful noises he remembers so well. The hand on the back of his head still doesn’t pull him further forward, but it doesn’t let him pull away, either. Jughead struggles for breath. 

“Relax,” Clifford says. It sounds like an order more than reassurance. “And for god’s sake, mind your teeth.” 

After a long moment of trying and failing to relax, Clifford lets him go. Jughead pulls away too hard and overbalances. He puts out a hand to keep from tipping over completely, though that’s more an afterthought. He gasps. He coughs. His eyes are watering and there’s saliva dripping down his chin. 

“There was bound to be something you weren’t good at,” Clifford says. His tone is less forceful now than it was when Jughead’s mouth was on his cock. He’s still hard, though. (Jughead isn’t even a little bit hard anymore. Not that he wanted to be, when he was.) “Theory only goes so far toward performing the act itself.” He strokes himself (slowly, firmly) looking down at Jughead half-sprawled on the floor. “We can try again, of course.” 

“Now?” Jughead says. And this time he does sound wrecked: hoarse, desperate. Clifford looks at him, appraising. Jughead looks back. 

“No,” Clifford says finally. “Later.” He pats his thigh, where Jughead’s hand had rested. “We’ll do something else in the meantime.” Jughead eases himself back up onto his knees. He’s wary. Aware, too, that he doesn’t have any other options. “Use your hands,” Clifford directs him. “I’ve seen you do that. You know how.” 

Jughead jerks Clifford off, uncomfortably aware that his own spit is what’s making this work. He’s also extremely aware, at close range, of the size of Clifford’s cock. Not monstrous, not porn-star huge, but proportional to the rest of him. And Clifford has a few inches of height on Jughead. He’s built like a football player or someone who used to be one. (Jason hadn’t had time to fully grow into that kind of solidity, if he was ever going to. Maybe he would have stayed slender, stayed reliant on being fast on the field more than being strong. There’s no way of knowing.) 

Clifford’s hand comes to rest on Jughead’s head again, and Jughead looks up at him. He knows he must be a mess. Maybe that’s part of the appeal, though -- evidence that he’s being debauched. Defiled, even, depending on how you look at it. The strange intensity is back in Clifford’s gaze. On a hunch, testing a hypothesis, Jughead puts his mouth on Clifford’s cock again. Just the tip, in another wet kiss. The hand on his head grips his hair suddenly, close enough to the scalp that he cries out in pain as well as surprise. Then Clifford is coming. In his open mouth, on his face. Jughead closes his eyes and stays still until it’s over. He stays still after it’s over, too, while Clifford catches his breath. He strokes Jughead’s hair softly now. It doesn’t feel like an apology.

When Clifford nudges him back enough to get up out of the chair, Jughead waits. He’s starting to get the hang of this, starting to learn the unspoken rules. Stay where you’re put. Don’t ask for what isn’t on offer. No backtalk. _A little more of this,_ he thinks, _and I can get the hell out of here._

He looks at the fire. Controlled chaos. Put it anywhere else, and it’s dangerous, but as long as it stays in a place made to hold it… He could use that in his novel, maybe. Once he figures out who’s dangerous. (The water in the bathroom is running again. Jughead knows at least one person who’s a fucking monster, but that doesn’t mean he’s a killer. Not necessarily.) 

“You can get cleaned up, if you like,” Clifford says from behind him. “In fact, I suggest it.” Jughead looks back at him. He’s still dressed, but his shoes and belt have been stowed somewhere. Maybe this is as casual as he’s going to get.

“Can I put the robe back on afterward?” Jughead says. “If we’re taking a break.” Better to let Clifford think he has no plans to get his clothes and get out. Better to keep following the rules until he leaves them behind completely.

“You may,” Clifford says. 

In the bathroom, Jughead does his best to get clean with a damp washcloth and almond-scented hand soap. If he’s being optimistic and assuming that Clifford is going to fall asleep soon, that means making his escape soon, and he’d rather not walk back to town covered in bodily fluids. When he goes back out into the bedroom, the bedside lamp is on and the overhead lights are off. Clifford is on the bed, lying down, facing away from him. It strikes Jughead that this might be a test. Then again, that might be paranoia. He has to take the chance. His heart is racing again, faster than when he was being subjected to anything sexual. This is what he came here to do.

He finds a key in the pocket of the tweed blazer, still draped over the ottoman. It’s not the key to the drawer.

It’s the key to the _door_. 

Jughead has a moment of blank shock. He hadn’t even thought to check whether the key in the door was still there. He had assumed he wasn’t locked in -- assumed that having his clothes and contact with the outside world taken would be enough insurance against anyone leaving. (Maybe someone else had gotten cold feet partway through the evening. Another echo of his predecessors.) It doesn’t change much, he decides: he can still look for clues, evidence, any indication whether the Blossoms were involved in Jason’s death. He just has to keep it short. He has to come back before Clifford notices he’s gone. He has to put up with the whole rest of the night and early morning. Hours and hours more full of Clifford Blossom’s tender mercies.

That’s changing a lot, actually, but it’s not like there’s anything else he can do. He can’t tear the room apart looking for the key to the drawer. He doesn’t have the time, doesn’t know how deeply Clifford is sleeping. So he double-knots the belt of the dressing gown, takes the key, opens the door, and steps out into the dark hallway. He had planned on having his phone to light the way, but that’s out of the question, too. And he doesn’t really know where in the house he is. He’d tried to look up floor plans for Thornhill among city public records, but you needed paperwork for that, and he didn’t have any legitimate reason to ask for them, so that had led nowhere. 

He has to simplify his plan of action. Step one: find an unlocked door. Step two: find the lights. Step three: look around, get in and out fast. Repeat as necessary until too much time has passed or his courage fails him. 

The first room is another bedroom. It’s smaller, and doesn’t have a bathroom attached. He looks through the closet (empty except for one overcoat that probably has dry rot) and the dresser drawers (completely empty). The second room seems more promising: it might be a study. He turns on the overhead lights only until he sees the desk lamp. He turns that on and then turns the overhead lights off again. The desk lamp’s light is localized enough that it’s less likely to be seen from the hallway. The desk drawers are locked (because _of course_ they are), but there are papers spread over the blotter. The blotter is another weird, old-fashioned touch. No one uses pens that need blotters these days. Or, well. Almost no one. 

The papers on the desk are too old to be whatever paperwork was being discussed earlier. They’re over seventy years old, judging by the date at the top of the first page, with parts handwritten and parts typewritten. The type is easier to read but not necessarily easier to parse. Some kind of agreement to pay a set amount in perpetuity. There’s no reason given in the contract. But it looks like it was drawn up quickly -- there are a couple of typos. The signatures at the bottom are almost completely illegible, but there’s a clear B, which means one of the people involved was probably a Blossom. And the other… might start with an L. It’s hard to be sure. 

Jughead is squinting at it, looking closer, when he sees a light under the door. It’s not bright enough to be the hall light. It must be from the room across the hall. Jughead shuts off the desk lamp, stands well away from the door, and holds his breath. He waits for a count of fifteen before he starts breathing again. Then he waits for the light to go off. After what feels like several minutes, it does. Jughead waits a little longer just to be sure, and then steps back out into the dark hall. It’s imperfectly quiet the way old houses are. It creaks and groans. Wood beams contracting or expanding; stones settling as mortar wears away. 

The door that opens behind him does not creak. Its hinges are well-oiled. He knows that a door must have opened somewhere only when he realizes he’s not alone. There is a soft glow of light, a sharp intake of breath. Jughead turns and sees Penelope Blossom holding what looks like a blown glass oil lamp. They stare at one another for a moment, frozen. Penelope recovers first. 

Her immediate reaction to finding an intruder in the house is terrifying but not surprising. She stalks forward, one hand outstretched, and catches him by the back collar of the dressing down when he finds the presence of mind to turn and run. He could slip her hold, maybe, if he could undo the belt fast enough and leave her holding the dressing gown. But that would leave him running naked through an unfamiliar house. If he’s lucky enough to get further than that, through acres of woodland and near-freezing temperatures. The only way he can imagine the scenario ending is along the lines of “The Most Dangerous Game.” 

Penelope is close behind him, but the heat he feels is from the lamp and not from her. “What do you think you’re doing,” she hisses. It doesn’t sound like a question. Jughead doesn’t know how to respond. “Did you think you could steal from us?”

“No,” Jughead says. “I was just --” He swallows thickly, trying to think of something. “I was curious,” he finishes. 

“Curious?” Penelope repeats, livid. _“Curious?”_ She marches him back the way he came and raps sharply on the door to that bedroom. Clifford opens the door and looks down at the two of them. “Did you lose something, Cliff?” Penelope says. She pushes Jughead into the room ahead of her and follows, closing the door behind her. 

“The key, Mr. Jones, please,” Clifford says. His expression is closed-off, his voice impassive. Jughead hands it over without trying to argue or deny that he has it. This is bad. This is worse than he even considered it could get. 

“If you’re going to be this careless, you’ll have to stop doing it,” Penelope says to Clifford. She won’t even look at Jughead. 

“And who, exactly, is going to forbid me from doing what I want to do in my own house?” Clifford says. Penelope’s eyes widen. She’s not afraid, though. (Jughead is the only one here who’s afraid.)

“Someone who has the best interests of the family in mind,” she says. “Someone with enough sense to value privacy and security over the dubious charms of unscrupulous children.” 

“I’m surprised you’d consider them children,” Clifford says. “Given how old you were when we met.”

“That was different,” Penelope says. Her voice is low and tight with anger. “I am your equal.”

“You are,” Clifford agrees. “You always have been.” There’s a strange combination of detachment and tenderness in the way he says it. 

“I want you to take care of this,” Penelope says, gesturing shortly at Jughead. She still won’t look at him. “I want you to make it clear that this kind of behavior is unacceptable, and take precautions against anything like this happening again.”

“Oh, I was planning on doing that already,” Clifford says. He glances sidelong at Jughead and then back to his wife. She raises her eyebrows in response. Even with her hair down, out of its customary chignon, there is nothing soft about her. The regality, the confidence -- that’s not a façade. Not the way it is with Cheryl. (Though maybe Cheryl will grow into that, too, assuming she lives long enough.) Penelope is waiting to see that her husband is going to make good on his word. She is, after all, his equal. His partner. And she expects to get something in return for the inconvenience she has been caused. 

Clifford takes Jughead by the throat. There’s no caress in it now, no sweetness or deliberation. Only force. He drags Jughead over to the wardrobe to stand in front of the full-length mirror there. 

“Look,” Clifford says. So he does. He doesn’t know what part of this he’s supposed to see. The scruffy south side kid surrounded by luxury? The inept detective caught in the act? What he sees is more and less than that. It’s a strange tableau: Clifford behind him, holding him up and holding him still; Penelope behind Clifford, observing for formality’s sake or her own gratification. His own reflection might be the worst part. He looks fragile, breakable. Maybe on his way to breaking already. 

Clifford lets him go and Jughead’s knees give out. He sits on the floor, gasping. He hadn’t realized that he was getting lightheaded until he could take deep breaths again. In the mirror, he sees the bedroom door open and close. He sees the key go into the lock again and turn. He’s alone with Clifford again. He has no idea what happens now.

“I think we need to reconsider the terms of our original agreement,” Clifford says. He sits in a chair by the fire and waits. Jughead doesn’t turn to look directly at him yet. He watches their reflections. There’s something poetic here, too, that he might be able to use in writing. Except he’s never going to write about this night. He’s not going to write about it and he’s not going to talk about it and he sure as _fuck_ isn’t going to pass that phone number along to anyone else. 

“I’m sorry,” Jughead says. “If you want to kick me out and not give me any money, I understand.” He suggests that because it seems like the best possible outcome. 

“That seems unfair, given services already rendered.” Clifford meets his gaze in the mirror. “Turn around, Mr. Jones. I want to have this conversation face to face.”

Jughead gets to his feet and goes unsteadily over to the other chair by the fire. He folds his hands in his lap and looks down at them. It might read as contrition, which would be good, or it might read as fear, which is accurate. 

“Where did you go?” Clifford says. “What did you intend to do?”

“I just wanted to look around,” Jughead says. “I wasn’t going to take anything.” Both true, though he initially planned to photograph anything suspicious. But that rested on the assumption that he’d have his phone, which he didn’t. He’ll leave Thornhill with nothing to show for it. That realization has been building slowly and now the full force of it hits him. It’s something like despair.

“What were you hoping to find?” Clifford says. 

“Nothing in particular,” Jughead says. 

“Did you even know my son, or was it entirely motivated by morbid curiosity?” Clifford says. Jughead looks up then. He hadn’t said Jason’s name, hadn’t so much as alluded to his death. Clifford’s expression remains difficult to read.

“We weren’t friends, but we weren’t strangers,” Jughead says. “Acquaintances, I guess.” It sounds better than saying _he almost broke my nose last year._

“Even if it wasn’t malicious, you shouldn’t have done it,” Clifford says. “Losing a son is like…” he trails off, flexes one hand. “Like losing a limb.”

“I’m sorry,” Jughead repeats. Then, when Clifford doesn’t say anything more (no acceptance, no absolution, but also no rejection) he says “How do you know my dad?”

“Business,” Clifford says crisply.

“You’re not the kind of person my dad usually does business with,” Jughead says. Clifford smiles without amusement.

“You’d be surprised,” Clifford says. He elaborates: “The largest legal employer on the south side of Riverdale is the Blossom Farms processing and packaging facility. Did you know that?” Jughead shrugs. He’s heard people talk about it, but doesn’t actually know anyone who works there. “A gallon of maple syrup produced in the fine state of New York goes for upwards of forty dollars, on average. There’s a lot of product going through that facility. A lot of money at stake. I’ve been known to hire local security to scare off potential thieves and saboteurs.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed the syrup industry was a hotbed of corporate intrigue,” Jughead says.

“Trade secret,” Clifford says. He rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and leans forward slightly. “So, Mr. Jones, back to the topic at hand. You’ve betrayed my trust, violated my privacy. What would you do about that, in my position?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead says. “I’ve never had that kind of power.”

“You suggested earlier that I kick you out. Putting aside the issue of whether that’s a suitable punishment for you, would it be fair for me? For the wronged party to be denied what was agreed on?” It’s a rhetorical question, so Jughead doesn’t say anything. He looks down at his hands again. “No, I think we should keep to the bare bones of our original agreement after all,” Clifford says. “With the understanding that I may not take your wishes into consideration from now on.” 

“What does that mean?” Jughead says. He has a pretty good idea, but in case he’s wrong -- in case it isn’t as bad as it sounds -- he has to ask.

“It means that I won’t necessarily try to make things easy or pleasant for you,” Clifford says coolly. “It means you can no longer rely on my goodwill.” 

“Oh,” Jughead says. “Well. That makes sense.” The words come out sounding calm, but all he can really think in that moment is _he’s going to hurt me_. Being hurt by Clifford Blossom isn’t going to be like being hurt by other kids on the playground. It isn’t going to be like the bar fights his dad sometimes gets into, either. Because it’s not about being mean, or being angry: it’s about asserting control. Jughead keeps looking at his hands when Clifford stands up and walks into the bathroom. (No sound of running water from the bathroom. Clifford must be getting something from the medicine cabinet.) There’s a tremor running through Jughead’s hands now, even when he clenches them tight together. He’s probably shaking all over but he can’t really feel it. 

He looks up when Clifford comes back out of the bathroom. He’s not holding anything. No medical supplies, nothing inherently frightening. But he’s wearing a pair of blue latex gloves. For the first time, Jughead considers the fact that he might not get out of here alive. 

“Get up, Mr. Jones,” Clifford says. Jughead follows instructions. It seems like his best chance. He fumbles with the knot in the belt of the dressing gown, but his hands are shaking harder now. “Don’t bother with that,” Clifford says. He takes a step toward Jughead and Jughead flinches back, though there are still a few feet between them. “If you make this difficult, it will _be_ difficult.” 

Jughead takes a step forward, and another, and another, and soon he’s standing in front of Clifford again. Sooner than he’d like. Clifford doesn’t bother with instructions now. He takes hold of the back of the collar (like his wife had done, Jughead reflects) and unceremoniously forces Jughead face-down on the edge of the bed. Rather like the first thing he had done, except now he’s wearing gloves. Now he’s tearing open a condom wrapper because he doesn’t want to leave evidence. (So Jughead will have nothing to show for it if he tries to go to the police? So there will be nothing to find on his body?) The dressing gown is pushed up around Jughead’s waist. It’s almost worse than being naked. 

He bites down hard on his lip when the first slick finger enters him. He promises himself that he won’t cry, won’t beg. He’ll keep what little dignity he has left. True to his word, Clifford doesn’t try to make it easy or pleasant. He adds a second finger before Jughead is even really used to the first, scissors them apart like he’s trying to pry him open. He does this for a little longer. Maybe he likes the little pained sounds Jughead is making. (Maybe he wants to make sure nothing tears, because that would be evidence, too.) When the third finger presses in, Jughead breaks both of his promises to himself in short order.

“I can’t,” he gasps out. He feels like he can barely breathe. 

“You will,” Clifford corrects him grimly. “Whether or not you’ll be conscious is up for debate.” Jughead buries his face in the bedspread and sobs. He tries to relax, tries to be _sweet_ like Clifford originally said he wanted. He’s pretty sure that if Clifford has to put him under (using pills, through an injection, in a sleeper hold) then he’s not going to leave Thornhill at all. Betty is expecting a call from him and will notice that he’s missing, even if no one else does. Isa knows he intended to see Clifford Blossom at some point. But the two of them don’t know each other. It could be months or years before anyone puts the pieces together. If they ever do. 

He focuses on breathing, on not resisting even though everything in him is telling him to get away. Breathing becomes difficult as Clifford’s cock enters him. He can’t seem to fill his lungs all the way. The most he can do is take little hitching breaths and fist his hands in the bedspread. 

“You’re hyperventilating,” Clifford says. He doesn’t sound angry, which is promising. It’s more of a detached observation. He’s thrusting shallowly but even those small movements are shocking, jarring. Awful. Jughead has read that sometimes people’s minds go somewhere else when something terrible is happening to them. He can’t retreat into himself, can’t even think about anything else for more than a second at a time. He feels trapped in his body. 

It gets worse before it gets better. Harder, deeper thrusts; bruising grips on his hips, his ass, his waist. The back of his neck. Eventually Clifford finishes. He comes, he pulls out, he moves away. Jughead wants to cover himself immediately but his hands ache from how hard he’s been gripping the bedspread. It hurts to unclench them. (It hurts all over.) 

“Can I go?” Jughead says when he manages get his voice to work again.

“Go, Mr. Jones?” Clifford says. “We still have hours together.” 

“You got everything you wanted,” Jughead says. His face feels puffy and sticky from crying. 

“I told you when we first spoke: I’m paying for your time,” Clifford says. “I’ll drive you back to where I picked you up at seven in the morning.” He touches the outside of Jughead’s still-bare leg. “You have no idea what I want.”

In theory, it should all get easier the second time. Or the third. In practice… not all of it does. Some of it gets worse. (Like when Clifford brings out a coil of rope, explains that he doesn’t use handcuffs because it might mar the finish on the headboard.) 

A little after six, Jughead takes another bath. He doesn’t get privacy this time. Clifford leans against the sink and watches. Makes sure that Jughead has scrubbed every trace of him away. When he’s satisfied, he gives Jughead back his clothes. Not his phone -- not yet. That goes into the pocket of his tweed blazer. He leads Jughead back out to the car with a hand at the small of his back. Solicitous. Gentlemanly. 

The sky is pale gray. The sun has probably risen in places where the trees aren’t so tall. Even that faint light surprises Jughead. All the heavy dark curtains in the bedroom had been drawn. 

When they get back to the appointed spot on the road, Clifford kills the engine. He hands Jughead back his phone. He also hands him a number of crisp bills. Twenties and fifties.

“I don’t want to see you at Thornhill again, Mr. Jones.”

“I don’t want to _be_ at Thornhill again, Mr. Blossom,” Jughead says. He slams the passenger side door a little harder than necessary when he gets out. 

The walk back to school seems longer going back than it had the evening before. Maybe it’s because of his various aches and pains, or maybe it’s because he’s tired. He had left a window at the back of the school open when he left, and it’s still open, so it’s not hard to get back in. He goes to the storage closet, lies down on his cot, and sleeps. 

He sleeps for almost twelve hours. When he wakes up, the gnawing hunger he felt when he got back has turned to nausea. He doesn’t want to eat anything, but knows from experience that it will get worse if he doesn’t try. He eats a few stale graham crackers (stored on the highest shelf, away from any possible rodents) and washes them down with tap water. He tries to work on his homework and doesn’t get very far. It’s hard to concentrate. Around one thirty in the morning, he tries to go back to sleep. It’s harder, this time, when he hasn’t been driven to complete exhaustion. He keeps thinking about where he was twenty-four hours ago. Trying to estimate what was happening to him at the time. Was he on his knees, on his back? Tied up to prevent an escape attempt while Clifford slept next to him? It’s hard to say. Time seemed to pass differently there. 

The next time he wakes up, his phone is ringing. It’s one in the afternoon on Sunday. He answers without looking at who’s calling.

“Jughead?” Betty says. 

“Yeah, hi,” he says. “What’s up?”

“You said you were going to call,” Betty says. “Did you forget?”

What Jughead should say is that yes, he forgot. He should also say that his lead didn’t go anywhere. The whole weekend was a bust. He doesn’t say those things, though. What he says is “I don’t know if he killed Jason, but I think Cliff Blossom has probably killed someone.” Betty is silent for a long moment. Jughead thinks she might have hung up, driven off by the ridiculousness of the accusation, but then she speaks again.

“Juggie, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m alive,” Jughead says. “Which is all I could ask for, really.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me to Jason’s funeral,” Betty says. “But if you think Clifford Blossom is that dangerous --”

“I’ll go,” Jughead says. He can’t bear the thought of Betty walking into that place alone. Because she’ll go, with or without him. “We’re partners, aren’t we? Holmes and Watson. Where would you be without your Boswell?”

“Lost,” Betty says fondly. “I thought you _weren’t_ the Watson of our investigative team.”

“Yeah, well,” Jughead says. “I’ve had time to reconsider. And I’m definitely not the smart one.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Betty says. Her voice has gone soft and fluttery, like she’s trying not to cry. “Do you want to meet somewhere? I -- I want to see you.”

“You’ll see me tomorrow at school,” Jughead says. “Thanks for checking in.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. He picks up his book. It might as well be written in the original French. He should shower again, probably, but he doesn’t want to look at his own naked body. Not yet. And he doesn’t want to be around people, but he doesn’t want to be alone, either. He could call Isa, but she’d want to know about the one thing he can’t talk about. He could call Archie, but since it’s the weekend, he’s probably alone in his soundproofed garage working on songs. 

So Jughead calls someone who won’t ask about how he’s doing. Someone who might be able to make him feel anything other than tired and stretched too thin. 

“Hey, JB,” he says. “How are things out there in the wilds of Toledo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then Betty and Jughead team up to _Hard Candy_ the shit out of Cliff Blossom, with Cheryl's help and cooperation. 
> 
> Fun trivia fact: despite the fact that this fic was named after the lyrics to a different song, I spent most of my time writing this listening to the _Gone Girl_ soundtrack.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song ["Painful Like"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQfbw6e2Yz4&list=PLRVfpsZ3JZTDeajCvhjFnhxGUdfMZm1wq&index=3) by Austra.


End file.
